


All and Only Mine

by zeldadestry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Sam remembers seeing him was at Pastor Jim’s.  It was the day after Sam’s ninth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All and Only Mine

The first time Sam remembers seeing him was at Pastor Jim’s. It was the day after Sam’s ninth birthday. 

He was sitting in a chair, with his hands cuffed in front of him and his legs chained to the floor. His eyes were closed and his head was lifted, so that the ray of sun shining through the one small window, high in the wall, fell across his face. “You don’t look bad,” Sam said, in wonder, as he pushed against the door until it swung all the way open.

“Sammy,” he said, “I’m your brother, Dean. Do you remember me?”

“Dean,” he repeated. They talked about him, Dad and his, well, Dad didn’t have friends, not exactly, but he talked to the people he worked with about him, a lot, about what they should do with him, about how they had to keep him away, away from Sam, away from everybody. Sam always knew when they were talking about him, but he didn’t think anyone had ever said his name before. He took another step forward, towards him, towards Dean. “I don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “Not important,” he said, “don’t worry about it,” but Sam could see it made him sad. “It’s been a long time and you were just a toddler.” He smiled, and Sam moved closer to him. “You’re not scared of me?” 

He was, but only a little, and he could tell it would hurt Dean if he said so. “No. You’re nice.” His hand settled over Dean’s knee. “Dad used to let me sit on his lap.”

“Let me guess, now he says you’re too old for that? Gotta grow up and be a big boy, right?” Sam nodded. “You want to sit on my lap, Sammy?” Sam looked away, too embarrassed to answer. Dean raised his hands, brushed Sam’s hair away from his forehead. “Come on up,” he said, voice friendly, lifting his arms overhead, and Sam obeyed. Once Sam was settled on his thighs, Dean brought his arms down in front of him so that Sam could rest between them, despite the cuffs. It was the closest thing to a hug for Sam in a long time, and he curled in towards Dean. “Comfy?” Dean asked. Sam nodded, his eyes falling shut. “Sleepy? I used to sing you lullabies when you were lying in your crib, you know that?”

“I’m not a baby,” Sam snapped.

Dean huffed, like maybe he was trying not to laugh. “I know, I know, calm down.”

Sam thought for a bit before saying, “Ok, you can sing to me. I mean, if that’s what you want.”

Then Dean did laugh, and the sound made Sam feel happy, safe. He drifted asleep with Dean’s voice murmuring above him, a song Sam recognized from riding around with Dad in the Impala, but he decided he liked it better when Dean sang it. It seemed like only a moment later, but it was dark outside, when Dean shook him awake, muttering, “Come on, Sam, come on, you gotta get outta here. Shut the door behind you, ok? And never, ever, tell them that you saw me, that we talked, understand? You’ll get in trouble and I couldn’t stand that. Are you listening to me?” Sam reluctantly slid from Dean’s lap, rubbing at his blurry eyes. “Damn it, Sam, get the fuck out of here!” Dean hissed, and Sam rushed from the room without another look back, because he didn’t want to be the reason Dean was upset.

By the time Pastor Jim and his Dad opened the door, they found him in front of the TV, just as they’d expected, just as they’d left him. They didn’t know he could pick locks and go wherever he wanted. Sam stared at his father, burning with questions he would never ask because he knew they would only make things worse for Dean and, because of that, Sam never said a word. 

Two days later, Dad moved Dean to another hunter’s. It was more than eight years before Sam saw him again. 

 

The Georgia heat is sweltering, and the air conditioner in Bobby’s truck broke a month ago, so, by the time they pull up in front of the rundown motel where John waits for them, Sam feels like his brains have melted. He thanks Bobby for the ride, and heads past his father into the rented room. He grabs a glass from the top of the dresser, not even bothering to see if it’s clean, and fills it with cool water from the tap in the bathroom. He drinks until his throat is no longer parched, until he can feel the liquid sloshing around in his belly when he turns from side to side, and then he splashes water on his face, grabs the nearest towel and a bar of soap and washes out his pits. When he’s done cleaning up, he sits down on the side of one of the beds, hopes Bobby and John will finish talking soon so they can all go get something to eat. He wonders what they’re discussing, out in the parking lot, so he gets up and walks to the window to watch them. They should be too far away for him to hear but he’s noticed lately that he can hear anything, if he wants to, can hear it in his head. 

“Drugging him?” Bobby shakes his head and all the hairs rise on the backs of Sam’s arms. 

John shrugs. “What we have to do, just for now. We get that woman over here and they say she can fix it, can purify the blood of any demonic influence.”

“I read up on the ritual. Now, I ain’t saying it won’t work, it might, might not, I’ve got no idea, but it sounds dangerous, sounds like it could kill him.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

“Is he?”

Sam doesn’t want to hear anymore, doesn’t want to hear his father’s answer. He pulls the curtains across the window and the voices silence. When he imagined this moment, he thought his heart would be racing, his hands shaking, that he’d have to force himself calm. Instead, he’s nothing but focused on his purpose. Dean’s here, now, and Sam knows it. He must be in one of the other rooms, captive, vulnerable, waiting for Sam to rescue him, whether or not he realizes it. 

John walks back to the room. “You ok, son?” he asks, from the doorway. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Alright. Good. You need anything? You hungry?”

“Nah.”

“Ok. I’ve gotta go with your Uncle Bobby for a few hours but, when we get back, we’ll all grab some dinner.”

“Yeah, sure.” 

Less than two minutes after Bobby’s truck pulls out of the lot, Sam is standing in front of the motel, scanning the building from left to right until his eyes settle on a unit at the very end. 

He’s not prepared for what he sees, once he’s picked open the door. He knew, rationally, that Dean would be grown now, a man instead of the boy he’d only met once, but to see him dressed in nothing but his boxers, spread-eagled across the mattress, each limb chained to the bed frame, sweaty, panting, barely conscious, the feeling that sweeps over him is not just anger at the people who did this to him but also a powerful kind of satisfaction that only appears when he knows something he really wants is about to become all his.

Yeah, the first impulse that strikes him is simply to touch, to put his hands anywhere, everywhere at once. Dean’s eyes blink slowly as Sam approaches him, he’s trying to focus his sight. “Who the fuck are you?” he slurs. 

“Your friend,” Sam answers, and starts his work at the lock above Dean’s right hand. These restraints are John’s and Sam’s practiced on them plenty of times before but given this situation he doesn’t feel quick enough. 

When he’s finished with the first, Dean’s free hand grabs weakly at the front of Sam’s shirt. “I don’t have any friends,” he says.

“Neither do I,” Sam answers. He wants to kiss the sore red flesh circling Dean’s wrist, the marks he made on himself from struggling against the bonds. He starts in at releasing Dean’s left arm, instead. Dean reaches up and pushes Sam’s hair back from his forehead. “Wait,” Sam pleads, wanting to eliminate the distraction, despite how good it feels.

“You remind me of someone,” Dean whispers, before his head falls back on the pillow and his eyes close. 

Sam ignores his own prickling eyes, works faster.

Once Sam’s freed Dean, he throws a blanket over his curled, sleeping frame and leaves the room for a few minutes, just long enough to lurk around the parking lot and get three plates, each from a different state, off of three cars. Then he takes the plate off the back of the Impala, chucks it in a dumpster, and attaches one from California instead. He gets his duffel bag from John’s room and double checks that he has his set of keys to the car, grateful that he had copies made a couple of years ago. Back in the room where they locked him up, he carefully pulls one of his own t-shirts on over Dean’s torso, and a pair of jeans over his lower body. Then he carries Dean to the car and arranges him in the passenger seat. Despite the disruption, Dean never stirs. 

Sam drives west for three hours, stopping once at a grocery store for provisions, until he pulls off the road when he spots an old farmhouse that looks abandoned. He parks the car inside the property’s barn and takes a quick look around the three-story home. It’s empty but still in decent repair and, although none of the plumbing inside works, there’s a spigot outside that runs when he turns its handle. He bought plenty of water to drink at the store, but this will be good for keeping them reasonably clean. He doesn’t plan on staying here too long, better to keep moving, but he’s got to at least give Dean a chance to rest. 

There are blankets in the trunk of the car and Sam folds up several of them on the floor, then lays Dean atop the makeshift bed. He knows Dean’s alive, he can see him breathing, but he checks his pulse, anyway. It’s slow. He feels a twinge of helplessness because he’s not sure if this is an incredibly deep sleep, and therefore restorative, or if Dean’s unconsciousness means something’s wrong with him. He empties the car of the groceries he bought and the rest of their things, and then he sits down on the floor, across from Dean. He rests his back against the wall and he kicks his legs out in front of him, and he closes his eyes and waits. There’s darkness, behind his eyelids, nothing but, and then a light flickers into life in the distance. He holds his breath as it grows stronger, begins to glow. That’s it, that’s what he’s looking for and he focuses all his attention on it, until he draws it closer to him, until he can reach out, mentally, and touch it. It sucks him in, down a vortex and, when the motion stops, he’s there, inside Dean’s head, his, yeah, these are dreams, but disjointed ones, random images, bloody hands, and Dean’s confusion as he looks down at them, someone approaching, their face hidden in shadows, but the knife in their hands glinting, and that one draws a flash of fear from Dean and, almost immediately following, the conviction of defiance, doesn’t fucking matter what they do, I can stand it. As he seeks, Sam’s hands clench into fists, but he knows that if this connection stretches both ways, that won’t help Dean, that will only emphasize what he already feels, so he forces his body to relax, he pictures today’s sky, its bright blue canvas and the few wisps of clouds. A blue sky, yeah, going on and on, beyond any horizon. You’re free now, he thinks, sending the words, the feeling, to Dean. You’re free and you have me at your back and I’m going to make sure no one ever locks you away again. 

 

“Sammy, that is you, right?”

Sam jerks awake as soon as he hears the voice. “Yeah, Dean, I’m here.” Dean squints at him. “Are your eyes ok?” Sam asks, getting to his feet and moving closer so Dean can have a better view of him.

Dean shrugs. “They give me some trouble, sometimes, but nothing I can’t handle.” 

Near-sighted, Sam thinks, need to get him glasses. Could be nutrition related. Too damn thin. Need to get him fed, too, build up his strength. “How do you feel? Are you hungry?”

“Where are we?”

“Don’t worry about that. Someplace safe.”

Dean swallows. “Is there- are we alone?”

“Yeah.”

“And no one knows-”

“Of course not. They’re never getting near you again.” 

He sits down cross-legged on the floor, at Dean’s side. “You’re all grown up,” Dean says, and smiles at him. “When did that happen?”

“So are you,” Sam says, and takes his hand. Dean shudders at the touch. Sam doesn’t have to ask what’s wrong. He feels inside him how long it’s been since someone was close to Dean with any intention other than hurting him or using him. He hasn’t decided yet, if he’ll seek them out, each person who took part, but there’s no question in his mind that, if any of them happen to cross his path, he’s going to show them what their attentions felt like. 

“And I wouldn’t stop you,” Dean says.

Sam tamps down on his anger. He can feel how Dean’s nervous system responds to his emotions, how it kicks in, ready to fight, but that’s not gonna help Dean heal. “We’re gonna stay here until you’re ok.”

“Sammy-” Dean coughs, and Sam squeezes his hand, feels despair digging into him, cutting through him. “I’m never gonna be that.”

“Until you’re feeling better,” Sam amends.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Ok.” 

 

Whenever Sam wakes in the middle of the night, the first thing he does is reach out for Dean, check to make sure he’s still there. Then he sits up in bed and watches him, catalogues every shift of his body as he sleeps. 

He stays as close to Dean as he can. He crowds him, keeps his hands on him, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. 

 

Dean’s eyes scare him, times like now, when his stare is blank, his jaw slack, and Sam wants to beg him not to go back there, to stay here, with him. “Sometimes I want to lock you up again,” Sam admits. 

“Don’t you fuckin say that,” Dean says, furious in an instant.

Sam rifles through the threads of Dean’s consciousness until he understands. “No, of course not, not for that- not to hurt you,” Sam explains. “It’s only about how badly I want to keep you safe. Safe from this fucked up world.”

“I dreamed sometimes, that they forgot about me. They left me alone. And I could go anywhere I wanted. I could walk away from the rooms where they kept me. I could live out in the world instead of in a trap. And when I would wake up and remember- shit, it nearly would kill me, Sammy.”

Sam rests a hand on either side of Dean’s face. “I can take all of that from you,” he says, lightly drumming his fingers at Dean’s temples. “Should I?’ Dean takes a deep breath and then shakes his head. “Dean,” Sam pleads, “it could be good. It could mean you wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“But it would also mean I wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That you rescued me. What you mean to me. And how good it is, just to be able to open any door I want and walk through it. It is a fucked up world, I know, but now I’m part of it.” Dean grins at him. “I’m part of it and there are still so many things I want to see.” Dean’s ability to access their connection must be growing stronger because he senses Sam’s concern almost immediately after Sam recognizes it himself. “With you,” he says, face suddenly grave, serious, determined that Sam understand him. “As long as you’re with me.” 

Sam holds him close and Dean tucks his face in at Sam’s throat. “You don’t have to worry about that,” Sam says, aware of his heartbeat quickening and Dean’s slowing until they’re beating in tandem. “You never have to worry about that.”


End file.
